Page 11 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)
“How you feeling today, Darcy?” he calls out casually, plopping down into his swivel chair. I shove the loose papers into my notebook, then slide it into my bag.
“Oh, I’m good today,” I say, as if I am ever “good”.
Sure, there are days where my joints don’t creak like a door from a horror movie, but usually, it just gets swapped for unexplainable muscle pain.
Though, other than my Raynaud’s flare, it’s manageable today, so I guess I have to be somewhat grateful.
Professor Palit nods, eyes fixed on the computer in front of him.
“I’m happy to hear it.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his hooked nose. “Now get out of here. I have to record myself practicing lectures and it’s embarrassing.”
I chuckle, sweeping my green messenger bag off my chair, and sling it over my shoulder.
“Bye, Professor!” I wave, and he doesn’t look up at me as he waves back.
I climb the steps up to the door, waiting patiently for my turn as the rush of students flows out. Whipping out my phone to kill time, I click on the notification I got from Cleo during class to finally read it.
ROOMIE
english is a no-go
ME
What? Why?
ROOMIE
i didn't go
ME
What do you mean you didn't go?
ROOMIE
i mean i walked up to the grizzly grind and made eye contact with will through the window and booked it
ME
Dude.
Why?
ROOMIE
idek
i panicked
i'm doordashing taco bell. you want anything?
ME
Are you really deflecting with Taco Bell right now?
ROOMIE
are you really going to keep your whole minnesota career a secret?
ME
Two soft tacos, extra beef.
"I’ve got it for ya’."
My head snaps up at the peppy voice, and standing in front of me, with her hand propping open the door, is a girl. Dark blunt bangs, brown eyes, and a sweet smile tugging at her chiseled cheeks.
She looks familiar, but I can’t quite pin it.
"Thanks," I manage, slipping my phone into my pocket. She pushes the door open further, warm fall sunlight flooding us as we step out into the hall.
“Palit is something else, huh?” she asks, a humored smile twisting on her lips. I nod, stepping to her side so I’m not blocking the doorway.
“He’s…” I trail off, flipping through my brain to find the right words. “Honest about who he is.”
The girl hitches a shoulder, nodding in agreement. “Totally! Which, to be honest, I like. It’s easier for me to be invested in what he’s saying when I know it’s not just bullshit.”
I smile. “Right? Like, how do you expect me to listen when everything that comes out of your mouth sounds scripted.” I run a hand through my hair, the soft strands feathering between my fingers, then falling back flat against my head. “My anatomy professor is like that.”
Her gaze shoots to mine. "You're Darcy, right?"
Shit. I don’t know this girl’s name. Am I supposed to know this girl’s name?
I give a half-nod. "Yeah. Sorry, do I know you?”
Her grin widens, charmingly so, as she leans against the wall. “I’m Bailey. Cunningham. We talked this morning in the group chat. I’m a defense-woman on the hockey team? Everyone just calls me Hammie, though.”
“Right,” I respond with a nod, the vague memory of her clutching her stomach yesterday flashing in my mind. Ah, another victim of Peyton’s poor leadership. “Sorry. I should’ve known that.”
She shakes her head, swishing a dismissive hand around.
“Oh it’s fine. There’s a lot of us.” She pauses.
“ Anyway, I just wanted to introduce myself. And—” She reaches into her back pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper and handing it to me.
“—I wanted to see if you’d be interested in joining my D&D campaign.
Cleo and I host it together on Tuesdays. ”
A valley etches between my brows as I open the flyer, suspicion scrubbing goosebumps down my skin. I study her—her posture, her tone, the way that bubbly grin settles in the groove of her mouth—and something doesn’t sit right. I lean back slightly, my fingers drumming against my bag.
“Why?” I ask hesitantly.
She shrugs, way too casual. “You seem cool.”
Cool? My gaze narrows, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up in alarm. Her lips tighten, the smile fading, the nervous tension in her face clear now.
“I’m cool?” I repeat flatly, and she nods. Bullshit. “Did Cleo send you to befriend me? Because—”
“ No! No.” She shakes her head, eyes widening as panic creeps into her voice. “Well, she might have mentioned that she was worried about you, but—”
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, pushing off the wall and whipping around to face her. Poor girl looks terrified, but I already have a meddling mother. I don’t need a meddling roommate too.
Bailey tosses her hands up in defense. “Look, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be weird or anything. Cleo’s just been talking about how worried she is about you, and since you’re new and all, I just figured I’d invite you. Just in case.”
My teeth scrape against the inside of my cheek as I study her like I’ve got a polygraph machine built into my DNA. She looks a little less nervous now, the tension in her expression loosening. Maybe she is being honest, but you never really know, do you?
A soft sigh escapes me, and I take a step back, offering her an apologetically distant look. “Thanks for the invite,” I say, the words surprisingly genuine as I force a smile that definitely isn’t. “But no thanks.”
Bailey’s expression falters, briefly, but enough for me to catch it, before she’s back to that soft, bubbly grin. “No worries. I wanna ask why, but I won’t."
“I appreciate that,” I say, and I do.
She slips off the wall. "But hey, if you ever want to hang out or exchange notes or whatever, just let me know, Darcy."
A sheepish grin tugs at the corners of my mouth. “I will,” I say. “Thanks.”
Bailey nods, then starts strolling down the hallway. Before she gets too far, she turns around with a grin.
“Hey Coach?” she calls out. My stomach does something fluttery when she calls me by that title. I catch her eye, and her grin widens. “Welcome to the team!”
“ L et’s try that again!” my mom’s voice cuts through the rink, and instantly, the players on the ice scatter, heading back to the starting positions of the drill. Drill... Right. Drills.
I jot that down on my clipboard, before shifting my gaze back to the ice. When the whistle blows, the players spring into motion, a blur of green and white. It’s chaotic, non-methodical, but they’re much more animated than they were on Wednesday. Watching the team glide across the rink—
I can almost feel it.
Blades carving through the ice, wind slapping my face, that prickling jolt that absorbs into the stiff gloves when puck and stick collide.
I’ve tried to forget that feeling. Tried to bury it beneath distractions, TV, books, homework, anything that keeps me from thinking about it. But even when it’s not dangled right in front of me, I’d never forget it.
I think about it every time I swallow my meds.
Every time I reach for a sweater and my fingers brush against the jersey I can’t bring myself to throw away.
I think about it every time my mom looks at me, or when Cleo tries to pull me out of the house, to get me to feel something normal.
But right now, I think about it the most. Watching them play, not even aware of how fleeting this is.
I wonder if any of them know how lucky they are. How many of them lace up their skates and think about how easily this could all be taken from them. It’s clear Peyton doesn’t. But then, neither did I. Not until it was already gone.
It’s hypocritical, really. How easily I took it all for granted. I was no different than them once. But now, here I am, bitterly pretending it doesn’t sting. Pretending I wasn’t just like Peyton, stupid enough to think it would last forever.
Jealousy is a green-eyed monster, and her name is Darcy Cole.
The whistle blows again, the drill falling apart. My mom shakes her head, shouting out to them.
“You have to see it through! ” she says firmly, gesturing with her hands through the movement of the play. She skates over to them, her voice fading as the team pools around her.
I should just let her coach. We’ve made it nearly to the end of practice without me needing to say anything. Wednesday, I had the excuse of paperwork to keep me busy. I’m not stupid enough to think I’ll glide under the radar forever, but I’m going to stay out of it as long as I can.
Everyone looks at me like I shouldn’t be here.
They’re right. They’re just right for the wrong reasons.
I was adamant with my mom that nobody find out about Minnesota. If they find out about Minnesota, they might find out about my RA. And then, I won’t be the spoiled coach’s daughter anymore, like Peyton said. Instead, I’ll be fragile. The pitied ex-player who lost it all. And that’s so much worse.
“Darcy, you got anything to add?”
Shit.
I glance up at my mom, only to find over twenty pairs of eyes trained on me.
The most intense of them all? Peyton’s, naturally.
Her golden irises glow even from the stands.
Bright, almost jarring. I hate how they burn right through me, like a magnifying glass in the sun.
Like any second, ribbons of smoke will lift from my body, and the layers of my already scorching skin will wear away until everyone around me sees who I really am.
I shake my head, but my mom catches my gaze with a warning look, a reminder that she’s not just my mother, she’s my boss. So, I get up and head toward the bench. A sharp pain flares in my chest, the rhythm of my heart pulsing faster, harder.
A deep breath expands in my lungs, and I square my shoulders. It doesn’t matter what they think. I know my stuff. So I lift my chin and say it.